By Ryan T. Scott
Three is the magic number. That's how many Boston championships Minnesotans get to reluctantly share by the time the current group of team sports seasons finishes up. Three is the magic number. That's how many Boston championships Minnesotans get to reluctantly share by the time the current group of team sports seasons finishes up.
You already have one championship ring under your belt this year with the Boston Red Sox winning the recent World Series. Not long ago David Ortiz was being groomed for success right here with the hometown Twins. He went from Davey O. to Big Papi. Davey O. used to hang out with us at the barber shop in Uptown with his Dad (shouts out to Fades of Gray) and occasionally hook up on the scene later that evening. Now, as Big Papi has a national bestselling book and two championship rings, you can't locate him with a satellite GPS system. "Dave, baby! Mostra amor amigo!" ("show some love, homie").
Speaking of love, can somebody tell Randy Moss to wipe that Kool-Aid grin off his face for about thirty seconds? Good Lord! Where do you start with that situation? What Moss is doing this year is ridiculous, preposterous and ultra-historical in the world of football. Moss doesn't even celebrate after touchdowns anymore. This from the same dude that faked pulling his pants down to show his butt to the Green Bay Packers stadium.
A couple of weeks ago I clowned Moss for not making sense when he gets interviewed. Well of course, right on cue, he did it! On primetime television!
When asked why he was smiling so much, Moss responded, "I'm living the dream! I'm playing for the New England Patriots. I mean, what else do you want?!" Actually, he said, "What'cha want?!" with that aggressive, confused look we brothas like to make when somebody is trippin' by asking a stupid rhetorical question. I love being black.
Randy Moss is a part of what will very possibly go down as the greatest team in any sport, of all time. Your Randy Moss, Minnesota. The country boy Randy Moss that you groomed and coddled after nobody else in the NFL draft wanted to deal with his baggage. And where does he eventually wind up? Boston! I won't go into the Boston Baked Moss jokes.
As far as the majority Insight audience goes, and myself as the biggest LA Lakers fan this side of the Miss'ssippi, when we think of Boston, we think of the Celtics. We think of Larry Bird, who is the goofiest white boy with the most "street cred" on earth. Eminem ain't got nothin' on Larry Bird in the hood. Brothas love jumpshots more than crazy slap-ya-momma rap lyrics.
I talk of Larry Bird because I wanted to soften the blow on the lead-in to this: Kevin Garnett is a Boston Celtic! The greatest role player in the history of the NBA is now a Boston Celtic (yes I said role player, but we can discuss that later).
Minnesota drafted "The Kid," suckled him through his super-boney youth, gave him Zen when he needed to get his hyperactive mouth out of Tim Duncans' championship grill, and still honored him as he became the old, crotchety veteran cussin' his teammates out 24/7. Now Minnesotans look on with confused appreciation for the perfect role that Garnett fills between sharp shooters Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. I still argue that Boston has no bench, which is necessary to win a championship.
If Kevin Garnett wins a ring, and when Randy Moss wins his, I would suggest Minnesotans claim Bostonapolis!
It's like a team going 15-1 and then . . . ooh. Okay, different example. It's like playing spades and you are up by 50-60 points and about to win, but then you get a horrible hand, which only results in you making three books and the other team comes from way behind to win the game because they ran. . . a Boston. Umph! Sumthin' ain't right, baby!
The worst part is that these are only three examples, and there are many more misplaced championships in cities ot